


Bad Decision

by bitterowl



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Gratuitous Smut, M/M, Marijuana, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 13:06:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9325541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitterowl/pseuds/bitterowl
Summary: "Shotgun it."The words escape Gilfoyle before he can stop them—not that he wants to stop them, though. If he's going to agonize over fucking some dickbag stoner with crooked facial hair, the least he can do is stand by his own desires.Do what thou wilt, he thinks, and smirks when Erlich stares at him like he's misheard.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [earlgreymanatee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreymanatee/gifts).



 

By the end of the his second week there, Gilfoyle is the only tenant left in the incubator.

The first guy had gotten a job offer at Facebook on the day after Gilfoyle had moved in.

The second had given up and gone back home to Utah after Erlich had verbally torn apart his app, using only the choicest of scatological metaphors. Granted, Erlich could have been nicer, but Gilfoyle would have been lying if he didn't throw in a couple of biting criticisms himself. Tears were shed. He was probably better off now, doing something that didn’t involve programming unusable garbage.

The third—who had replaced the first—lasted a little over twelve hours.

At some point in the middle of Tuesday night, Gilfoyle had heard a screech of horror, followed by Erlich yelling in the hallway about nudity and home-ownership. Gilfoyle had been tempted to go out and see what the commotion was about, but putting two and two together, he realized that unless he wanted some full-frontal Erlich dong, it was better to stay out of it.

The guy was gone by the time Gilfoyle woke up the next morning.

Gilfoyle hadn't even properly learned his name.

Regardless, the past three days of peace and quiet are welcome. Most of Gilfoyle's life has been spent living in shit-holes with too many other sweaty, unkempt men, and this is the first time since his senior year of college—when he and Tara had attempted to co-habitate—that he has had something even resembling a _nice_ place to stay. The term is used loosely—the house is falling apart and is—well, is supposed to be—full of roommates, but it's better than most other places he's lived.

 _Having a yard is pretty sweet_ , Gilfoyle thinks idly, reclining lazily on a deck chair, accompanied by nothing but his own thoughts and a bag of shitty weed that he had pinched from his ex-roommate. Even in the bright California sun—not exactly something Gilfoyle is a fan of—it's almost tranquil, especially with Erlich making phonecalls inside, leaving him alone. Gilfoyle is thankful that Erlich is spending his meddlesome attention on something that isn't _him_.

However, just as Gilfoyle is lighting the end of his pipe, Erlich bursts through the kitchen door, strides over, and stops in front of Gilfoyle.

 _Go fucking figure_. Gilfoyle just stares at him, impassive, and takes a drag.

"Well?" Erlich asks, putting a hand on his thick waist. He's a picture of sanctimonious impatience. Given his slacker-stoner uniform of a hoodie and cargo shorts, though, it's anything but properly threatening. He's wearing _Birkenstocks_ , for fuck's sake. "Care to explain yourself?"

"You can't be fucking serious," Gilfoyle says, furrowing his brow. Is this guy for real? "I just saw you smoking out here last night."

Erlich cocks his head as though he doesn't understand what Gilfoyle is talking about. "What? No, I don't give a fuck about the weed." He crosses his arms, looking at Gilfoyle like he's stupid. "I was talking about the dishes you left in the kitchen. The rules I posted on the cabinet _specifically_ state that—"

"Yeah, I'll take care of it," Gilfoyle interrupts, lighting up his pipe again, "but I'm a little busy right now."

Erlich watches as he takes another hit. There's something behind his eyes that makes Gilfoyle distrust him. "What strain is that?"

"I'm not gonna share my weed with you."

"Well, it smells like it's irredeemable shit," Erlich says, enunciating every word. Gilfoyle's noticed him doing that when he wants to sound important. "Where did you even get that? Under a bleacher at a high school football game?"

Gilfoyle can't help but snort. "Ex-roommate."

"He should be fucking ashamed of himself if he actually paid for that."

Smirking, Gilfoyle wonders if he was wrong about this guy—that he's more than just a bag of hot air with a perm—but Gilfoyle's almost never wrong about people. He considers his words for a moment before speaking. "You're right, I should probably just throw it out."

"What?" Erlich says. To Gilfoyle's satisfaction, Erlich lowers himself onto the adjacent deck chair. "You don't just _throw out_ weed."

When he holds out a hand and gives an expectant quirk of an eyebrow, Gilfoyle passes him the pipe.

* * *

"So then, I talk them up, except by now, I'm like, 'Shit, I have these airline motherfuckers _precisely_ where I want them...'"

As Gilfoyle had expected, it's only taken a few hits for Erlich to open up, and only a few more for him to start rambling on about Aviato. He hadn't, however, expected the effect it was having on himself. Slowly, Erlich's crooked smile has become kind of charming, his gravelly voice and idiotic facial hair seeming less stupid and more—

When Erlich's large hand comes down on Gilfoyle's knee, giving it a firm squeeze, Gilfoyle has to grit his teeth against a surprised noise.

"One of the men there, I swear, he's got hearts in his eyes," Erlich says before taking another hit. He holds it in for all of a second, then lets it out in a slow, practiced breath. "Wasn't my type, though. Too clean-cut, if you know what I mean."

The realization of what Erlich is implying seems to hit the both of them at the same time. Gilfoyle raises his eyebrows when Erlich's gaze darts with a sort of desperate uncertainty to meet Gilfoyle's. He didn't mean to say that, and for a moment, Gilfoyle's chest tightens in empathy.

Gilfoyle gives him a smirk. "Yeah, I'm sure he was choking for some fucking unwashed programmer dick," he says, carefully watching Erlich's reaction. "Corporate shitheads like that can't fuck, anyway. They're all either vanilla or into fucking watersports."

Erlich lets out a startled laugh. "Speaking from experience?"

Gilfoyle just snorts in reply and holds a hand out for the pipe, taking note of the bemused little smile Erlich gives him when their fingers just barely brush. Between the contact and Erlich's green-blue-brown eyes practically fucking twinkling at him, Gilfoyle has to try hard to not genuinely smile. It wouldn't be on-brand.

Instead, he reaches for the bag of weed, but finds it just about empty. "Shit," he says, trying not to acknowledge how glad he is that he can blame his _feelings_ on the copious amounts of shitty weed he just smoked, and not actual human weakness.

"Worry not—I am nothing if not magnanimous," Erlich says, heaving himself up from the deckchair. He pointedly ignores Gilfoyle's grimace of disgust at his choice of words. "How about I get us something a little stronger and really get this party started?"

Gilfoyle has to bite back a comment about how depressing it is that Erlich considers this a party. "Your call," he says curtly. There's something about Erlich's gushy affectation and crooked smile that make him hard to look at directly, and Gilfoyle isn't entirely sure it's only out of second-hand embarrassment.

Erlich gives him a finger-gun and a wink before leaving, stretching languidly as he goes, up to his full height, which is even taller than Gilfoyle's six-foot-one. When he disappears into the house, Gilfoyle lets out a lungful of air. Lord Below, he is _fucking huge_.

It's at this moment that Gilfoyle realizes that he's got a choice in front of him, and that it would probably make him a fucking coward if he didn't at least consider his options. On one hand, Erlich is one of the most irritating people he has ever had the displeasure of meeting, stupid smile or no. Not only that, but Erlich is his landlord—Gilfoyle likes to think that he's put the days of trading blowjobs for a place to sleep far behind him.

On the other...

Gilfoyle curses inwardly, his body reacting to the idea of that hideous facial hair scratching against his bare skin, those gigantic hands on his hips, leaving him black and blue, and—

Before he can properly make a decision, the back door swings open, and Erlich has another pipe and a small bag of green-and-purple fuzz. Gilfoyle isn't exactly that familiar with strains of weed—he's a punk, not a stoner—but knowing this artisanal-goat-cheese-loving motherfucker, it's probably better than the shit he's used to.

"Here we go," Erlich says, settling back down into his deck chair, lazily crossing his long legs in front of him. "Now, this—this is how you fucking party."

Gilfoyle watches silently as Erlich opens the bag and gives it a deep inhale, luxuriating in the dankness like some kind of weed sommelier. He holds out the bag for Gilfoyle, raising an expectant brow.

"Mm," Gilfoyle says sarcastically, even though his nose is crinkling at the overwhelming reek of it. "Smells like fucking weed."

Scoffing, Erlich rolls his eyes and begins to pack his yellow-and-green glass pipe with a kind of reverence that Gilfoyle finds half charming and half absurd. He's never understood weed culture, even though Tara tries to get him to appreciate it on a near-weekly basis.

He wonders—a little sadly—if Tara would like Erlich.

"Fuuuck, that's good," Erlich wheezes, a plume of thick, white smoke pouring out of his mouth as he speaks. "If that dried-out, twiggy bullshit the kind of shit you've been smoking, then this is going to blow your fucking mind."

He goes to pass Gilfoyle his own pipe, but Gilfoyle just finds himself staring at him—at his lips, the curve of his crooked smile, the way the late afternoon sun plays at his hair, turning it into a thick and golden mane.

Erlich raises an eyebrow, confused. "You can use your own pipe, if you want. I'm not trying to be greedy."

"Shotgun it."

The words escape Gilfoyle before he can stop them—not that he wants to stop them, though. If he's going to agonize over fucking some dickbag stoner with crooked facial hair, the least he can do is stand by his own desires. _Do what thou wilt_ , he thinks, and smirks when Erlich stares at him like he's misheard.

The words—and Gilfoyle's smirk—seem to slowly sink in, however, and the surprise on Erlich's face slowly turns to understanding, then acceptance, then a kind of sleazy, piercing smolder that is just plain unfair. Without speaking, Erlich lights the pipe again and takes a deep inhale, and, without exhaling, gives Gilfoyle a jerk of his head that says, _Come here_.

It takes Gilfoyle an unconscionable amount of effort to not scramble to straddle Erlich's lap. Instead, Gilfoyle leans over as though it isn't a big deal, mouth open and waiting, gaze trained on Erlich, challenging and steady. He has _some_ fucking dignity left.

When the pungent smoke hits his face, Gilfoyle inhales slowly, taking it in, trying not to cough. He can already tell this is stronger than he's used to, but his worry is cut short when Erlich's lips brush his own. The smoke rushes out of his lungs in a shuddering breath, and before he can brood over it any longer, he closes the space between them in a hard and desperate kiss.

Somehow, Gilfoyle isn't surprised that Erlich's a good kisser, especially once the THC starts to take a hold on his brain. Not too wet, just the right amount of teeth—between his skill and the hot slide of his tongue, Gilfoyle can barely keep from groaning into his mouth.

Without warning, Erlich breaks off the kiss, and Gilfoyle has to bite back an embarrassing noise, trying hard to keep himself from leaning right back in. There's a part of his brain that lights up with panic—a vague, stomach-churning horror that Erlich's decided this—that Gilfoyle—is a bad idea.

"I'm not gonna fuck you on a deck chair," Erlich says with a rasping laugh. It's just vague enough to make Gilfoyle's skin crawl.

"So we're fucking, now?" Gilfoyle forces himself to say, deadpan.

Much to Gilfoyle's relief, Erlich's eyes travel slowly up the length of his body, mouth tugged into that maddening, sleazy smirk. The way Erlich is looking at him makes a shudder go up his fucking spine, and he realizes that he's at least half-hard.

"Fuck yeah, we are."

Gilfoyle lets out a snort and lets Erlich help him up out of his deck chair, not complaining when Erlich's hands find their way to his hips, pressing him onward, practically manhandling him through the kitchen and down the hall. When they get to Erlich's door—the one with the stupid, artsy Shins poster on it—Erlich reaches past him to open it. Already a little dizzy, Gilfoyle lets himself be pushed into a rumpled bed, a fist tangling in the ugly comforter. He lies there, prone and waiting, looking up at Erlich, hoping that he can tell how badly Gilfoyle wants it.

If Erlich turns out to be a bottom, he swears he'll set the fucking bed on fire with both of them in it.

However, the way Erlich devours him with his eyes says that he's not—or, at least, he's on the same page as Gilfoyle is right now. A large hand finds what looks to be a sizable erection through his cargo shorts, squeezing, adjusting. "Fuck, you look good."

Gilfoyle shifts his hips in what he hopes is an inviting way, trying not to stare. "You gonna just stand there and tug on your dick, or do you want to actually fuck?"

"Greedy," Erlich says idly—the above-it-all tone in his voice as irritating as it is arousing. It's then that Gilfoyle realizes that Erlich still has the pipe.

 _Fuckin' stoners_ , he thinks, but watches as Erlich walks slowly over, lighting it.

"No need to spoil a good time by being so," Erlich pauses for a moment that has no right to be as delicious as it is, "impatient."

The fact that Erlich can tell Gilfoyle is practically fucking choking for it—the desperation is rolling off of him in waves—is almost shameful, but for the fact that Erlich seems to be enjoying it. Gilfoyle has to remind himself that submitting to his own desires, so long as he wants to, is anything but weakness.

And hell, he can always move out.

But for now, he's going to meet Erlich's mouth with his own and inhale deep, body thrumming with need when the smoke hits his lungs and Erlich's tongue slides against his lower lip. By the time Erlich's found his way between Gilfoyle's thighs, their kisses are hard to the point of discomfort, Gilfoyle's hips pressing up to meet the hand that's found its way into his tight black jeans.

"Fuck," Gilfoyle breathes, squeezing his eyes shut. Erlich makes quick work of taking him out, hand moving steadily in long, gentle strokes. Somehow, he's managed to find a rhythm that matches the slide of his tongue, and soon Gilfoyle is panting and trying to hold back undignified little noises. _Fuck_ , Erlich is good at this.

"Yeah?" Erlich asks, breaking off the kiss and burying his face in Gilfoyle's neck, brushing his lips against it in a way that borders on being almost tender. "That good?"

Before Gilfoyle can reply, he sucks in a shuddering, pained breath. It feels like Erlich is leaving a hell of a hickey on him, all teeth and tongue and suction. His hand slows to a teasing stroke as he plants biting kisses all over Gilfoyle's neck and clavicle, but before Gilfoyle can complain, Erlich drags a thumb through a bead of precum, slicking the head of Gilfoyle's cock with it. Gilfoyle can't keep his back from arching, a groan escaping him.

"Fucking— _Christ_ ," he practically snarls, hips bucking. It feels maddeningly good, but not nearly enough to get him off. "Stop fucking teasing me."

Erlich snickers a little bit, planting one last kiss on Gilfoyle's stinging neck. "Christ, huh? I thought you were a Satanist."

"Fuck off," Gilfoyle grunts, but then he realizes that Erlich's since released his dick and is pulling away. He can't possibly be that sensitive—or cruel. "Where are you going?"

"I'm gonna suck your dick," Erlich says, sliding down onto the floor. "Unless you have a problem with that?"

Gilfoyle lets out a shaky laugh before he can stop himself. "Go for it," he says, but his words are punctuated with a sharp inhale when Erlich wraps large hands around his thighs and yanks him forward and into a better position. "You do this a lot?"

"What? Suck dick?" Erlich says, meeting his eye and giving him a wicked smirk when Gilfoyle leans up on an elbow to look at him. "I dabble."

Snorting, Gilfoyle puts a hand on Erlich's head, urging him on. He's since given up on not trying to seem impatient. "Shit. Lucky me."

"You have no fucking idea." Erlich shoots him one last meaningful look before dragging his tongue up Gilfoyle's length and swallowing him down in a single fluid motion.

It's then that Gilfoyle realizes Erlich wasn't fronting. He's actually good at this—incredible even—quick enough to feel good, slow enough to keep things going, good suction, good rhythm, and _fuck_ , his _tongue_...

He can't even be properly surprised when Erlich begins to tease his ass open with a spit-slick finger, pulling away from his cock just long enough to ask, "You like that?"

Gilfoyle replies by draping a leg over Erlich's back and lifting his hips, positioning himself to make it easier. "Don't stop," he breathes.

It isn't long before Erlich's mouth and fingers are threatening to unravel him entirely—his body is practically moving of its own accord, hips squirming and hand buried deep in thick curls, guiding Erlich's mouth to wherever he wants it to be. Soon, though, it gets to be too much, and he yanks hard on Erlich's hair.

"Easy!" Erlich winces, pulling away. "If I hurt you, you can ju—"

"Fuck me," Gilfoyle forces through gritted teeth, interrupting him. The words feel like they're being ripped out of him, low and feral and desperate. For a moment, there's no response, and he worries that Erlich is going to make him beg for it.

He doesn't trust himself not to.

However, before Gilfoyle loses his nerve and asks again, Erlich lets out a laugh. "Shit. Fuck yeah."

As Gilfoyle makes room for him—all while shimmying out of tight jeans and layers of clothing—Erlich fishes around in his bedside table, producing lube and a condom. Gilfoyle realizes distantly that he probably would have let Erlich fucking bareback him, and is grateful that Erlich seems to know what the fuck he's doing. It had been awhile since he'd been with a guy who was both conscientious and willing to wreck his shit.

Gilfoyle can't help but watch as Erlich strips bare, not entirely sure how he feels about his attraction to him. He'd be lying if he didn't admit that he was at least somewhat beholden to western standards of beauty, but Erlich isn't terrible to look at. He's got a quality about him that reminds Gilfoyle of uncooked bread dough, but it isn't exactly unappealing. His arms and thighs—thick and dusted with pale freckles—combined with his height give him a look at could only be described as _substantial_.

Regardless of his own shallow ideals, a shudder of anticipation goes through him when Erlich lazily rolls the condom down his shaft, eyes downcast.

"Spread 'em," Erlich says once he finishes, nodding down to Gilfoyle's legs. His smug-ass smirk tells Gilfoyle that he can pick up on the desire, and for a second, Gilfoyle is tempted to make this difficult.

Instead, he holds eye-contact as he lays back. He may be letting Erlich crawl between his legs to fuck him into the mattress, but this is _his_ choice. When a large hand grips at the meat of his thigh, arranging him into a more fuckable position, Gilfoyle has to take a deep breath, almost frustrated with himself for letting himself be so goddamn _pliant_. This isn't the first time he's had a leg slung over a man's back before—he doesn't need to act like it.

However, the second a lube-slicked finger strokes its way up the crack of his ass, cold and wet and slippery, all the fight goes out of him. Erlich is achingly gentle, easing him back open with slow and practiced fingers that Gilfoyle would have appreciated more if he hadn't been ready to be fucked about ten minutes ago.

" _Fucking_ — Ah!" Gilfoyle practically snarls, bucking his hips impatiently when Erlich curls his fingers inside of him. "Put your dick in me already."

Much to Gilfoyle's umbrage, Erlich _snickers_. "Yeah? You want my fucking cock?"

Gilfoyle lets out a low, irritable grunt that is almost too close to a whine for Gilfoyle's comfort. "How about you choke on my fucking balls some more," he says, jerking his hips. When Erlich doesn't remove his fingers immediately, Gilfoyle wonders if he could overpower him enough to shove him onto the floor and climb onto his dick and just ride him, hard and angry.

"Never pegged you for the slutty type." Erlich lets out another snicker when he manages to find an angle that forces a groan from deep in Gilfoyle's chest.

It feels so good that Gilfoyle can't bring himself to be properly embarrassed. "Just fucking—" His words are interrupted when a shuddering breath is forced from his lungs—Erlich's thick fingers are stroking him quicker now, too deliberate to be teasing anymore. "If you don't fuck me, I'm going to come just to fucking spite you." The threat is supposed to be empty, but Gilfoyle's body has already started giving him little warnings.

Judging by Erlich's smirk, it's apparent that he wouldn't believe it was just spite. "Well, shit. I guess if I want to fuck that tight little ass of yours, I need to get on that."

Gilfoyle finds himself way more turned on by that statement than he knows he should be, so he gives Erlich a disgusted sneer. "Stop with the porn shit."

Erlich shoots him a smug look as he drags his fingers out of Gilfoyle with aching slowness. "What? Don't like dirty talk?"

It takes all of Gilfoyle's self-control to not _whimper_ at the sensation. Instead, he grunts impassively, though his hands clench unconsciously around fistfuls of Erlich's bedding.

"So if I were to ask you to beg for my cock..."

Gilfoyle's breath hitches. The idea of begging is far too tempting, what with Erlich looming tall above him, erection bobbing between freckled thighs. In retaliation, Gilfoyle jams a heel into his back. "Fuck me or I leave."

"Ow, Jesus," Erlich snaps, but looks down at Gilfoyle with a sort of amused intensity. "You really are gagging for it, aren't you?"

Gritting his teeth and glaring daggers up at Erlich, Gilfoyle knows his lack of response only confirms Erlich's suspicions. Thankfully, Erlich doesn't waste much more time reaching down between their bodies to position his cock a little better. When the tip brushes against Gilfoyle's ass, he can barely keep from gasping, but when Erlich begins to ease into him, slow and careful, Gilfoyle lets out a long, low noise, letting his head fall back, eyes fluttering shut.

"Yeah," Erlich rasps, voice thick with pleasure. Even with his eyes closed, Gilfoyle can hear the smirk in his voice. "You like that?"

Gilfoyle groans in response when Erlich gives him a few slow, cautious thrusts. Taking his cock in a hand, he presses forward impatiently. "Harder—"

That seems to be the breaking point to Erlich's patience; his hand finds Gilfoyle's thigh, fingers biting into tender skin as he holds him in place, his rhythm quicker and rougher. The noise that escapes Gilfoyle's throat makes him laugh a little. " _Fuck_ yeah," he rumbles, slowing down to a teasing pace when Gilfoyle arches his back and lets out another embarrassing noise, still tugging at his cock. "Thaaat's it. You fucking love this."

Tightening his hand, Gilfoyle is sorely tempted to play along—to let out wretched whimpers and beg and writhe with desperation, but he just lets himself clench a little around Erlich's shaft. "If you don't stop fucking around, I _will_ murder you."

"And risk not getting the best orgasm of your entire life?" Erlich says, the hint of a shuddering groan in his voice. He gives Gilfoyle a short, hard thrust that makes Gilfoyle grunt and clench his jaw. "I don't fucking think so."

"Don't test me," Gilfoyle replies, but Erlich has since picked up the pace. When he tightens a hand around Gilfoyle's thigh, pressing him down into the mattress, changing his angle ever so slightly, Gilfoyle's body responds violently, a shiver going through him. He can't stifle the wavering sound that forces itself from his throat. "That— _Fuck_ —"

"Yeah?" Erlich groans in response, going harder. "That good?"

"Uh-huh." Gilfoyle's words are embarrassingly close to a whimper, but he can't bring himself to care. He barely has to jerk the hand wrapped tight around his cock—the force of Erlich's thrusts creates enough friction to bring him closer and closer to coming. Squeezing his eyes shut and giving in to pleasure, he lets Erlich fuck him, tearing moans and gasps from him with each roll of his hips. "Fuck—don't stop—"

"That's right—beg for it," Erlich rasps, voice low and thick and dripping with confidence.

Gilfoyle can't bring himself to deny him, the words just bubbling out. " _Please_ —" he breathes, eyes shut tight. Fuck, he feels good. " _Erlich_ —"

"You look close as fuck," Erlich says with a chuckle. He drags his cock out of him slowly, just to force it back in before returning to his relentless pace. "You gonna fucking come for me?"

Gilfoyle had always taken pride in being able to control himself—to save a climax until the last possible moment—but there's something in the sound of Erlich's voice that makes his body respond suddenly and violently. Before he can stop it, he's coming hard, back arching, mind blank with pleasure. He's barely aware of Erlich's thrusts coaxing shudders and groans from him, but soon he's spent, gasping for breath and trembling with the aftershocks, Erlich's still-hard cock buried deep inside him.

"Fuck, that sounded good," Erlich says, letting go of Gilfoyle's poor, bruised thigh. He straightens out and slides a hand up Gilfoyle's side, eliciting a quiet, dizzy laugh from him, letting Gilfoyle squirm beneath his touch. "Told you."

"Mm," Gilfoyle hums noncommittally, smirking.

Without much warning, Erlich slips out from inside of him, and Gilfoyle hears the quiet squelch of a condom being removed. When he looks up, Erlich is tugging at his dick in slow, lazy strokes, still between Gilfoyle's thighs.

Gilfoyle watches with interest, lips parted and mind fuzzy with fucked-out bliss.

"You want my fuckin' load?" Erlich asks with a grin. Gilfoyle can see the muscles in a thick, freckled arm twitch, and Erlich sucks a shuddering inhale through gritted teeth. He looks way more attractive than he has any right to be, sweat-slick and with a feral glint in his eyes.

Shifting, Gilfoyle decides to lean into it—he arches his back and meets his gaze, inviting Erlich to make a complete fucking mess of him.

With that, Erlich unravels entirely, letting out a low, rasping groan and shaking out his thick hair as he comes on Gilfoyle's waiting stomach. Brows knit, he stokes himself dry, lips parted, chest heaving with labored breath, practically _quivering_. Erlich's sudden display of vulnerability in the throes of climax makes Gilfoyle smile a little. The vague pride in his ability to make Erlich come so entirely undone is deeply, deeply satisfying.

Once he's spent, Erlich flops back against the pillows in a languorous sprawl, a bemused smirk settling on his face as he catches his breath. Gilfoyle isn't at all surprised when he grabs the abandoned pipe on the bedside table and lights it again. As he's sucking in a lungful, he watches Gilfoyle stretch out his sore limbs, making room when Gilfoyle settles next to him. When he hands him the pipe and lighter, Gilfoyle takes them, thankful that he has something to busy his mouth with that isn't talking.

"Fuck," Erlich says on an exhale, breaking the silence. "That was good."

When Gilfoyle looks over, Erlich's eyes are twinkling at him. It's just as charming as it was before they fucked, but the intimacy is a little more than Gilfoyle can bear, at least right now. He smirks and shakes his head, busying himself with the pipe again. "It was all right."

"All right? _Just_ all right?"

Erlich sounds offended, so Gilfoyle passes him the pipe. "Don't be so insecure. It was good."

"Fuck yeah, it was," Erlich says, though he still sounds mildly insulted—he's doing the thing where he enunciates way too much for casual conversation.

Gilfoyle lets out a quiet huff of laughter. The effect he seems to have on Erlich is as irritating as it is gratifying. On one hand, having a piece on the side who's not only convenient but a damn good fuck would be nice. Before this, the last time he'd had physical contact with anyone was when he visited Tara two months back.

On the other, though...

Without warning, Gilfoyle rolls out of the bed and lands on unsteady legs, wobbling as he bends down to pick up his rumpled flannel shirt.

"Leaving so soon?" Erlich asks. Gilfoyle almost doesn't look up. When he does, he regrets it. Erlich is watching him with an expression that's soft and satisfied and more than a little affectionate.

Gilfoyle's insides squirm uncomfortably, so he bends down to pick up a black converse. "In case you forgot, I'm covered in a fucking gallon of semen."

"There's a shower in the master bath. I could join you." Erlich says the last bit in a low voice that can only be described as a _purr._

"My shit's in the other bathroom," Gilfoyle replies a little too quickly, pushing away thoughts of Erlich's soapy hands all over him. Before Erlich can argue again, Gilfoyle's already out the door and padding down the hall and into the bathroom. The house is quiet—a little too quiet—but Gilfoyle is thankful that they have the house all to themselves.

If he weren't thankful for the privacy, that would mean he probably regretted fucking someone who was not only just about a complete stranger, but also his landlord. It would mean he regretted fucking _Erlich_.

Gilfoyle didn't like to regret things.

Stepping under the hard spray of the showerhead, Gilfoyle lets out a shaky breath, giving into the fucked-out tranquility that settles over him like a warm blanket. His normally overactive mind is sluggish and blessedly foggy, thoughts slipping from his fingers before he can really consider them.

When he finally steps out of the bathroom, clad in a towel, steam clouding up his glasses, he can hear a shower going down the hall, in the master bath.

For a moment, Gilfoyle considers wandering back into Erlich's room—arranging himself on Erlich's bed and making himself comfortable, if only to see what Erlich would do—but pride wins out.

Fuck, he could use a nap.

* * *

Later, when Gilfoyle is jarred awake to the sound of Erlich's voice booming in the hallway, he finds himself sore and disoriented and very naked. His hair is wet. His limbs are heavy. His mind is thick with sludge, and he's very thirsty. He had been sleeping on a tender bruise on the outside of his thigh, which aches when he prods it with a finger.

The windows in his room are blocked out with the cardboard from various cases of beer, so the time of day is a mystery to him.

The next time he hears Erlich, he must be right outside his door, but this time, another voice replies, even quieter. Gilfoyle's stomach turns with faint, unconscious panic. It takes him a second to figure out why, but when he does, he's flooded with memories of large hands and a skilled mouth and a crooked smirk.

 _Shit_.

Gilfoyle wants desperately to roll over and go back to sleep, but he can practically feel His Beneficence judging him in his weakness, daring him to do better. To hide away in his room would be admitting fear. Fear of something so stupid is not an option, so he swings his legs over his nest of a bed, groaning as he stands, stretching out his back. Halfheartedly, he kicks through the pile of clothes on his floor until he finds a pair of clean(-ish) sweatpants and tugs them on.

Showing up shirtless and proud—in front of a stranger, no less—would be nothing short of a power-play.

Rubbing under his glasses at a bleary eye, he wanders out into the dim hallway. Judging by the faint light filtering through dingy windows, it must be somewhere between six and seven. The voices are coming from the kitchen now, so Gilfoyle shuffles in, pointedly ignoring Erlich and his guest. The stranger—some Indian guy in a hideous brown-and-purple striped shirt that's at least three sizes too big—stares at him as he makes his way toward the cabinets, then the fridge. He can feel both his and Erlich's eyes on him as he pours himself a bowl of Raisin Bran. The sound of the flakes hitting the china is the only sound in the room.

Erlich clears his throat. When Gilfoyle glances back up at him, he looks equal parts irritated and turned-on.

The other guy is trying desperately to look anywhere but at Gilfoyle's body and failing miserably. Apparently Erlich is making a point of only picking awkward, half-closeted social rejects for his incubator.

 _Nerds of a feather_ , Gilfoyle thinks idly.

Regardless, the attention from both men is leaving Gilfoyle feeling deliciously smug. Watching the two men watch him, he shovels a scoop of cereal into his mouth, leaning back against the counter, languid and nonchalant. It's only when the silence stretches on just a beat too long, that he takes another bite, finally nodding in greeting at the stranger. "Hey."

When he doesn't respond immediately, Erlich claps a meaty hand on the guy's shoulder, startling him enough to make him jump.

"Ahh, yes, Bertram Gilfoyle. One of my more _promising_ investments," Erlich says, more than a little meaningfully, trying to draw the attention back to himself. It doesn't work. "Gilfoyle, this is Dinesh Chugtai." He enunciates the name with an air of braggadocio. "Mr. Chugtai is going to be moving in next week, as I'd mentioned to you earlier today."

Erlich had done no such thing, unless he had snuck it into some dirty talk without Gilfoyle noticing.

"His app is, of course, _absolutely_ brilliant. What was it again?"

Dinesh mumbles something vague in a strained voice, still pointedly trying to ignore the sweatpants slung low on Gilfoyle's hips. His concept sounds half-assed and stupid as hell, but maybe that's just because he's is so thoroughly distracted.

When Gilfoyle shifts his weight from one leg to the other, Dinesh looks like he's going to throw up or pass out.

Erlich seems to notice, because he shoots Gilfoyle a _look_ and immediately tries to herd Dinesh away from Gilfoyle. "Well, that seems to be everything, Mr. Chugtai. If you'll allow me to walk you to your car, we can iron out the final details of our arrangement..."

Gilfoyle raises a brow at Dinesh when he steals one final look over his shoulder at Gilfoyle before being practically manhandled out of the kitchen.

It's only when he hears the front door open that he runs a hand down his face, the full weight of the situation finally weighing on him.

Erlich's voice manages to carry back into the kitchen, even from outside.

 _I can't believe I fucked him_ , Gilfoyle thinks, listening to the muffled sounds of a pompous windbag trying to impress that poor, oblivious coder. _I can't believe I'm probably going to fuck him again._

By the time Erlich comes back into the kitchen, Gilfoyle's mostly finished his cereal. Their eyes meet, and a tense silence stretches between them. Erlich looks uncharacteristically uncertain, and it makes the cereal sit uneasily in Gilfoyle's stomach.

"So," Gilfoyle says suddenly. His voice sounds a little more good-natured than he'd meant for it to. "You gonna fuck him too?"

That seems to put Erlich at ease. He squares his shoulders and raises a brow, crossing his arms. "Why? Jealous?"

Gilfoyle snorts. "Yeah, sure."

"If you must know," Erlich says, smirking, "I prefer to make one bad decision at a time."

 _Bad decision_. The phrase would have been insulting if Gilfoyle didn't find himself vaguely relieved that Erlich felt the same way he did. Nonetheless, he feels a twinge of something he doesn't quite want to examine. "You make it sound like this is going to be a repeat occurrence."

Erlich leans in. When he speaks, his voice is low and smooth. "Well, _you_ sound pretty fucking cavalier for someone who was practically choking for my dick not three hours ago."

It takes every ounce of self-control to not rush Erlich, slam him against the far wall, and kiss him hard.

Or maybe backhand him—that would probably be more satisfying.

But Gilfoyle forces himself to remain impassive. "If anybody was choking on anybody's dick, it was you."

Erlich grins. "You loved it."

Gilfoyle rolls his eyes, but allows himself a faint smirk as he sets his bowl in the sink, wipes a hand off on his sweatpants, and brushes past Erlich out the kitchen door.

"Come the fuck on," Erlich whines from the kitchen. "At least fucking rinse it."

"Make me." The words come out before he can think better of it, but instead of allowing himself the luxury of regret, Gilfoyle lets himself lean into it. Stopping, he turns around slowly, crosses his arms, and cocks his head in a way he hopes translates as a challenge.

The surprise on Erlich's face is priceless, but he recovers quickly, looking Gilfoyle up and down like he doesn't quite believe the implication but is hopeful nonetheless.

Without giving him time to act, Gilfoyle turns back toward the hallway, still feeling Erlich's eyes on him, anticipation already creeping up his spine.

If Gilfoyle was going to be a bad decision, then fuck if he wasn't going to be the worst decision he could possibly be.


End file.
